“I am your wife, I, Ermentrude Roberts, married to you in the sight of God and man.  I cannot prove it, but as you once said, our hearts know it and will continue to know it as long as either of us lives.  But I am not going to obtrude my claims upon you, Carleton, or stand like a specter in your path.  Had this woman you have deceived been weak or foolish or unloving, or indeed anything but what she is, I might have held to my rights and insisted upon a recognition which would have profited you in the end.  But I cannot shame that woman—­I can neither shame her nor bring her to grief.  You have broken one heart, but you shall be saved the remorse of breaking two.  I had rather suffer myself.  I am alone in the world.  I have means.  I can ultimately be useful and face good men and women without fear.  Why then should I drag down to the dust one as innocent as myself, or take from you what may make you the man I once thought you and hope to see you again.  But that I may have strength for this and for all the sacrifices it involves, you must declare here, now, in this open park where we stand, with no one within sight much less within hearing, that I am your wife.”

“You are my wife.”

“It is enough.  Now I can say what otherwise could never have left my lips.  I love you, Carleton, love you to eternity as I promised; but I shall never seek you again, and you can go on your way unperturbed.  I have consolations here,” laying her hand on her breast.  “It will no longer be my portion to watch your face for signs of a failing regard.  What I have is mine, and that is the undying memory of two months of perfect happiness.”

She would have said more, but she saw that he had been greatly shaken.  She feared the renewal of a flame not yet altogether extinct in a heart which once beat for her alone, and so contenting herself with a low farewell, she was turning swiftly away, when one last thought made her pause and say: 

“I cannot return you your ring.  It is lost.  I was careless with it and it fell unnoticed from my hand.  But to-night I will send you back the little clock which unites our initials.  Destroy it if you will, but if some sentiment bids you keep it, let it be this one and no other:  ’I recall Ermentrude only that I may be faithful to Lucie.’”

With a low cry his head fell upon his breast in extreme self-abasement, then he slowly lifted his eyes and seeing in her face a full knowledge of his sin, murmured in overwhelming shame and contrition: 

“You know me for the wretch I am.  I have the ring; it fell from your hand into mine one day while you lay asleep.  I do not ask for forgiveness, but this I promise you, Ermentrude:—­if the little clock comes back, I will make a place in it for this ring, and neither clock nor ring shall leave me again while I live.”

Instinctively her hands went out to him, then they fell back on her breast.

“God will hold you to that promise,” she said; and melted away from his sight in the mist which had been gradually enveloping them without being seen by either.